Early Days
by Mallaithe
Summary: The early days of Methos and the Horsemen M for sex, rape, language, and violence.


The war was theirs the blood, the agony, the rapes, the robberies, the dead children and rotting mothers, the tortured fathers, the wasted lives it was all theirs. Their masked faces surveyed their handiwork. From one horizon to another the destruction was complete, shattered and burning shelters. Fetid corpses, fresh and old littered the remnants of streets, crust sand coated mud formed from the drying blood of the corpses filling the scene caked the walls and structures still standing.

The blood had faded in places to brown or greenish streaks, but in low lying cracks and shadows, puddle remained, rimmed with a crust of black blood, bloated flies and carrion gulls drifted through the chaos their cries and mindless buzzing a dull counterpoint to the silence. The settlement had once been a decent size, housing a few hundred individuals; it had been a place of learning and exploration.

Smoke smudged the white-blue sky the four men still standing turned to one another. One man wore white and blue, he seemed very tall but his billowing clothes and high boots were distracting. Another wore black and leather he bore a mighty Axe coated with clotted gore. A third rooted through the gore rising occasionally to reveal a nightmare visage. He was short and whip thin, dressed in as little clothing as was practical the color of his garb was impossible to tell he was caked with flesh and blood. His hair stood on end thick with clotted fluids and rank substances only his gleaming black eyes betrayed that he lived and was not in fact a corpse. As he rose to his brothers his jaws worked feverishly, in one hand he held a curved blade, in the other a dripping piece of red flesh. The fourth man dressed in colors similar to the others but also very much his own motioned the others towards him.

"Our work here is done, FAMINE!" The shout startled the carrion man; he jerked and slithered toward his companions.

"They defied us." The axe man grunted, his voice was surprisingly deep and rich.

"They did indeed brother, and paid a terrible price for it. Come brothers, victory is ours today this pathetic settlement, tomorrow-"

"The world?" This last snide comment drifted from the man in white, his face was obscured by a white half mask. The other three did not bother to disguise their features.

"Oh little brother, does our plan bother you?"

"No, this bothers me." The masked man gestured at the decimated settlement.

"You agreed to send these scavenging filth a message. This is OUR land, and they dared to defy us."

"What kind of message is it when there is no one left to hear it? You revel in slaughter for the joy of their pain. This is no message this is . . . "

"Ah words fail you little brother? Perhaps you need more education?" The filthy scarecrow hissed gnawing at his lump of meat, foul gristle clung to his teeth and beard.

"Yes indeed brother, why don't you flee back to your books? Oh wait I burned them." The fourth man snarled gleefully.

"I spoke in haste brothers." The man in white conceded. He turned on his heel and began trekking away from the other three men.

He crested a short hill crowned with scrubby shrubbery and berry thickets. He nickered softly. Pausing to listen he turned to the right and began weaving a course through the increasingly denser plant life.

"Hello." He whispered entering a small glade finally. A massive white horse stood grazing contentedly. The impressive animal's hide was streaked and marred with the day's work. Bloody hand prints, shallow cuts and scrapes and dirt coated the big animal. The man in white mounted the animal sans saddle and bridle and guided him back toward the carnage. As he crested the hill once more he spotted his companions ahead of him.

Urging the big horse on he caught up with them and fell into a languorous pace at the rear of the group. He allowed the beast to choose his own pace and allowed his mind to wander.

"Brother?" The man in white blinked and looked toward the source of the salutation.

"Yes?"

"Your animal, he'll be lame by the time we reach camp if you keep him on like that." It was the wide man with the axe. His softly whiskered visage looked at the white man with an expression of deep concern. The man in white slowed his steed and slipped off him.

Silas was an enigma to the tall white clad warrior. The man had endless compassion and patience for animals and even small children but reveled in war and battle like no other man he had seen. Kronos was too shrewd and aware of his own enhanced yet fragile nature to truly abandon himself to battle and Caspian the cannibal was more interested in perversion, torture, and his own unnatural appetites to acknowledge the reality of beings beyond his brothers. No Kronos enjoyed battle, Caspian lusted for the opportunities it provided but Silas, Silas thrilled in the act of combat. Pitting himself against an opponent no matter how outmatched his chosen opponent might be was Silas's purpose in life.

Silas also dismounted and gave his animal its freedom; it was content to plod along behind Caspian's mount. Silas approached the white horse and convinced it to allow its right foreleg to be examined. The man in white had no doubt that Silas had picked up on some minuscule sign of discomfort from the big animal and would be able to ease the animal's pain. He felt along the thick leg and then grunted and straightened.

"E's got a thorn in 'im Brother." He bent back to his work. Reaching behind his chest plate he pulled out a small leather bag, he tipped it over and poured a small amount of yellow powder onto his palm. He spat on it and stirred it into a gummy mixture. Crouching he removed an inch long thorn from the animal's leg and smeared the yellow goo over the broken skin.

"Thank you." The man in white said, genuine appreciation and even affection flavored his tone. Silas grinned like a child and whistled for his own horse. He mounted efficiently and hurried to catch up to Kronos and Caspian. Behind the four men the settlement burned.

Its crude mud and wattle huts, its low reed based cement walls, its lively and joyful denizens all burned and rotted in the desert sun. The four men headed into the deep desert.

The men rode into camp weary and worn from their journey. A huddle of slaves enveloped them taking their stained and sweaty clothing and offering bowls of lightly scented water, crushed dried flowers floating like dead sailors in their depths. The man in white waved his platoon of slaves away and entered his tent. He slowly undressed and piled his ruined clothing carelessly around his quarters. While it was technically a tent it had more in common with a sturdy yurt more than a nylon construct masquerading as a shelter. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, the fire pit was lined with expensive pottery bricks, pilfered on one their earliest raids. The utensils were all of the finest available bronzes and precious metals usually studded with understated gems. The man wanted his power to be obvious by the wealth of his personal space but he was not a man given to boasting. A green eyed girl barely out of childhood slipped into the tent she busied herself preparing a meal for her master.

He watched her from hooded eyes as she worked with expert precision and skill. To anger one of the four was to die, badly. She preferred working for the quiet one in white. His features were almost always twisted with paint or covered with his mask. But his voice was not always harsh or cruel.

She laid out a selection of dried fruits and cooked meats; she poured him wine and brought another bowl of scented water. He ate slowly managing to ignore her entirely as he settled into his thoughts. She cleaned his face, neck, and hands carefully and ran an expensive horn comb through his hair. As he settled back on his favorite stool she removed his under shirt a thin wool now stained and crusted with sweat and the blood of his enemies.

"Burn it." He ordered. She bowed and slipped from the tent. Once she was gone he lay down on his sleeping skins in a corner. He listened to the night noises of the camp. Kronos having his way with one of the slaves her cries of distress real or faked drifted through the desert night, Silas speaking with one of his pets soft cooing noises of encouragement and boyish laughter, a disturbing lack of noise from Caspian's corner, and finally the soft hiss and whisper of the slaves in their quarters.

The girl returned. She removed the remnants of his meal. Seeing her master lay awake she approached and knelt next to him.

"Do you need me Master?" She asked.

His changeling eyes slithered over to her, focusing and sharpening. He thought of the slaughter and death he had been steeped in, the brief life allotted to most of the peoples he had encountered. He focused on his own lack of emotion his apathy and felt a stirring in his belly and held a hand out to the girl.

Come dawn the day to day reality of camp living crawled into the man's tent. He had to urinate and there were plans to be made, provisions gathered. They would need to scout a new location as well. It was possible their latest butchery would go unnoticed for years if no traders had reason to stop by the settlement in the next few weeks but it was unlikely so the Horsemen had to flee. Or to put it another way, their legend required that they be as will o' the wisps, unstoppable, deadly, and impossible to find.

His mouth felt sour. He stood up slowly and wrapping his lean, rock hard warrior's physique in a woolen blanket entered the desert dawn. He stretched and walked to the riverbank. The slave girl had been enough to push him over the edge into sleep but he still felt restless. He dropped the plain un-dyed wool to the ground and slipped in to the frigid river.

He swam against the current until his muscles burned and the last of his rough morning drifted away. Feeling better he allowed himself to sink to the bottom of the river. His kind had a kinship with water. Smiling he allowed his feet to settle into the silt of the river bottom. Feeling a secure grip he envisioned his sword and knife in hand and began to run through a few exercises. Invigorated he kicked off the bottom of the river and darted toward the surface. Breaking through he did not splutter and cough or even gasp for air as a normal man might. He calmly studied his surroundings and then did a languorous back stroke toward his point of entry.

Emerging he watched the river water sheet off his lean muscular body. A toned and tight physique shaped by murder and butchery, stamina gained by harassing a last survivor for hours through the desert until exhaustion or fear claimed him. . . or her. Arms honed by the rising and falling of blades into innocent flesh. His gaze slid away from himself and out into the surrounding land. Their campsite was neatly hidden it would be very difficult to discover them without knowing they were there. He headed to higher ground. Pulling the wool over him to shield his skin from the desert sun he sat patiently studying his home.

"Not natural-"

"Watch your tongue you, they'll skin you alive and let the skinny one eat you while you're still alive! You must NEVER say such things. Not even to yourself in your dreams they'll know!"

Two slave girls' voices, the second speaker sounded like the girl he had used the night before. He listened carefully.

"The gods would never be so cruel! We must have sanctuary somewhere!"

"There is no sanctuary for us, no life but obedience and discipline. If you are very lucky Methos will take you into his entourage and you can expect to live a few years longer than the rest of us but that is all we have to hope for."

"Methos? Death? The executioner? You are mad!"

"Trust me Sinara it is better to be used like a whore filled with his cold seed and cast aside knowing your skin will be intact come dawn. Yes he is the executioner, but he doesn't torture or demean he simply kills. Would you rather Caspian culled the slaves? Mind me girl find a way into the cold one's graces and life might be bearable. If not there's always Caspian . . .or Kronos." The girls finally entered Methos's line of sight.

The second girl was indeed the long limbed green eyed slave from the night before. The other was a dark skinned almond faced beauty purchased on one of their last supply runs. She had been freeborn and kept some of that mind set with her. It would undoubtedly lead to her painful death shortly.

"You are so weak listen to you, if you had EVER known freedom you would know that there is NO other way to live. Stupid peasant slave." Sinara spat at the green eyed girl and turned on her heel. Both girls were carrying massive loads of linens to be cleansed in the river and dried in the hot desert sun. Methos felt beads of sweat crawl down the arch of his spine. Uncomfortable but intrigued he kept his place.

"Don't be a fool! We can finish this in half the time with both of us, unless you're too good to work with a mere slave!" The green eyed girl hissed. Sinara glared at her but conceded to reason, the amount of work the slaves were burdened with was specifically designed to leave them with no energy for escape or vengeance. Methos watched them out of sight as they hurried to a rougher portion of the river more suitable for their needs.

He stood and returned to his tent. Dressing in a simple tunic and loose breeches he set about cleaning and restoring his weapons and battle gear. He did make a point of noticing the slaves around him. For as long as he could recall slaves had existed in his world he had even had several dozen lives as a slave. He watched them struggle with the almost impossible amount of work assigned to them.

"Methos!" Kronos's voice jarred the leaner man out of his reverie. He looked up from the leather he had been repairing not trusting such delicate and potentially life threatening repairs to his slaves.

"Ahh there you are, tell me brother was she as good as I suspect?" It took Methos a moment to decipher Kronos's question.

"The slave?"

"Of course the slave dear brother."

"She's a screamer." He said dully.

Whether the girl had faked her multiple orgasms or they had been real were little concern to him. When moved he could bring a woman multiple times but he did not care about the slave, any of them, or the camp, his brothers or even himself. He was a machine cold, calculating, devoid of emotion, compassion, or empathy, he had gone beyond psychopathic, beyond sociopathic, he was the embodiment of death, a machine of destruction.

"Perhaps I'll have her tonight."

"Do as you see fit brother you always have." Methos said returning to his work.

"You concern me brother."

"Do I?" The same unconcerned tone.

"You've lost your spark, your zest, your lust for the kill. It bothers me." Methos looked up at him and studied the man. His face was a picture of strength and nobility marred by a scar across one eye he was an imposing man.

"What would you suggest? Methos inquired.

"I shall have to think on it; certainly another trip to the cities is out of the question. In the mean time turn your agile mind to our futures, I want us on the move in three days time."

Throughout the years of their 'relationship' Kronos had managed to weave a net of control through and around Methos. Through abuse, threats, torture, brutal physical punishments and brazen psychological abuse the other man had molded his older companion into a fine tool. Methos had always possessed a keen analytical mind capable of rapid observation and analyses Kronos had molded him into a master battle smith and warrior and in the process bound Methos to him more surely than any natural born brother could have imagined. Methos was Kronos's creature. There had been a time of happiness for the lean man when a slave woman called Cassandra had created an illusion of home and love for him but Kronos had taken her and he had not stopped it, the woman another of their kind had stabbed Kronos and fled into the night rather than continue to suffer at his hands or allow herself to be remade in his image. A few hundred years had passed since then.

Kronos may have owned Methos but the older man could feel the winds of change. The days of the Horsemen were numbered it may not be for another hundred or even two hundred years but their days of free plundering butchery were ending. Shortly after Cassandra's escape Methos had fled from Kronos and his unholy brothers. He had gone to the great cities of his age and sought out knowledge. It had been a dangerous journey and an enlightening experience. Kronos had of course found him as Methos knew he would. The king of pestilence had infected the small freehold where Methos had been living as a laborer, the infection some kind of pox focusing on the animals had jumped to the human denizens of the small land plot and brought them agonizing deaths.

Methos had stepped over the bodies, bloated and rotting in the summer sun to once again take his place at Kronos' side. One of the shapeless molting masses had been a woman he called wife, with green eyes and untamed curls. Her orphaned daughter lay on a pallet in the hovel they had shared. The two men had never spoken of the day or Methos's return to the group.

Methos finished repairing his leather armor and returned it to its accustomed place in his tent. He emerged wiping his hands clean and studying the camp. He was seeking the girl Sinara. He spotted her helping the older female slaves at the cook fire. These women were too old for the men's sport but were too well trained to kill or sell. He approached them. Immediately the women prostrated themselves. He studied them silently and then gestured for them to rise, and although none had raised a head or even seemed capable of noticing his movements they were bent so low, they rose and returned to their work.

He studied their work and their interplay. He was a quiet man, silent almost, more so since the cities. The slaves were used to his ways and made no move to betray their opinion of him or his silences. Finally Sinara rose to fetch more water from the river. He watched her leave and felt the gazes of the camp on him. Yet he glanced idly around and no eye was upon him, nonetheless they watched, through eyelashes, off of reflections cast on buckets of water or shields, from the movement of shadows on sand, they noted and followed his movements. Noting this he followed Sinara

"Slave." He called as she bent at the riverbank. She stiffened and then turned to him and knelt. She moved with a coiled strength, like a serpent. Her hair was long, jet black, and utterly straight. It moved like silk in the gentle wind. Her limbs were wiry with new strength, he recalled her being a somewhat soft specimen at the market but needs were needs and Kronos would not accept any unattractive young women.

"You were not born into bondage." It was not a question but she answered anyway still kneeling.

"No Master, I was born free."

"And noble, I wonder if your male relatives would have sold you if they knew who the buyers would be." Again it was not a question, still she opened her mouth as though to answer frowned and snapped it closed again.

"You are a fool slave; you would have been better off listening to your friend. You see I don't care about you one way or another, but the others, well, they care to see you suffer, they care to make you feel pain. I feel the same about you as I do a stone or an arrow. You are a tool no more if you break you will be replaced."

"Tell me little bowl what do you think of us and our world?"

"You are foul demons cast out of your home and driven to torment the innocents of this one. The gods will punish you." She said coldly.

"They all ready are." He said and punched her. She dropped like a sack of spuds. He gripped her ankle and dragged her back to camp. He could have carried her easily but this was more humiliating. If he didn't break her before Kronos or the others they would kill her or destroy her spirit in taming her.

When she woke she was suspended over a bed of coals by her ankles, she couldn't feel her feet.

"Struggle or make a fuss and you go lower." Methos said. The green eyed girl held the rope looped through a pulley that held Sinara above the coals.

He sat and watched her squirm and snarl. When she didn't show signs of calming he ordered the slave to lower her. Hours later the girl's hair was much shorter but she could at least fake subservience and humility. Methos dismissed her and allowed the green eyed girl to escort her to the slave area.

"Will you need me master?"

"No send another." He said.

When another female arrived he had her sit at the fire. He did not want sex, human company maybe but when the only choices were homicidal megalomaniacs and slaves, the slaves were a safer choice. She had big dark eyes. She appeared to be no older than thirteen. Her long thick hair was pulled back in a leather thong. Her clothing was ragged but showed efforts to repair it to something presentable. He had absolutely no doubt she was a virgin, she was a peace offering sent by the slaves to forestall any vengeance incurred by the impertinent Sinara. He gave her a few dried berries and some water. She accepted warily and sat watching him tensely.

"Relax girl, I have no desire for your body tonight." He growled. She flinched, appeared relieved, and then tried to hide her relief.

"Master, I have been schooled in the erotic arts of my people I can-"

"Cease." She did so immediately. When he began to feel tired he stripped ignoring the girl's surprise and fear and slow fascination and lay down on his furs. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly slipping into a light doze. He felt her douse the flames. He heard her moving carefully to tidy and clean. Finally her soft steps brought her to his side. She lifted a loose fur and draped it over him and then settled near his feet. Soon her childish snores drifted up to him.

Erotic arts? Judging by her reaction she hadn't even slept with one of the other slaves yet. Did they truly think the best way to survive in the camp was to seduce him? He wondered how much of Cassandra's legend had filtered down to these people.

"You seem better today brother." Kronos voice killed off any idea of further sleep. Methos sat up and cast aside the fur covering him.

"As you say brother. Did you try the green eyed slave? Did she squeal for you?"

"Why yes she did, eventually. Did you know brother that the slaves believe that the only way a woman can gain protection or privilege in the camp is via seduction of yourself?"

"You have only yourself to blame."

"I should have fucked your whore to death and then taken her head with your sword." Kronos said. Methos blinked mildly, cow like. Kronos stared hard at him.

"But I didn't and now what's done is done. We'll have to kill them and start over. I think the time has come for us to disband again. To seek our fortunes so to speak, and let the locals accumulate more for us to steal."

"And breed more for us to kill." Methos added.

"Would you like to kill them yourself? Or perhaps since high summer is approaching we could simply leave them here to die. They will not be able to flee the desert on foot before the thirst kills them." Kronos mused.

"The slaves?"

"Yes the slaves fool. They are infected with this legend, it gives them hope, hope is dangerous. We need slaves not freedom fighters. Kill them yourself or leave them for the sand, I leave the details to you. We have more than enough to purchase what we need when we re-emerge among the populace."

Methos watched him leave and then lay down eventually he slept. He felt the girl rise and leave him before dawn.

After waking he sat in front of his tent, clad in a soft lambskin loincloth. He chewed dry berries and watched the slaves scuttling through the camp he listened to their hints about special skills and invaluable knowledge. Obviously they knew of Kronos's command. He chewed slowly lost in thought. Halfway through the bowl he felt the first cramps. He grunted and set the bowl aside and then doubled over in agony. His innards were melting, he knew they were, he had actually felt them melt once and it had felt exactly like this. He lost his balance and hit the floor. Only dimly aware of the warm shit trickling down his legs. His vision blacked out as another cramp hit him forcing his stomach contents out. Writhing in feces and bile he shrieked. Poison the little bastards had some balls- soon the pain began to fade and his vision returned .

The camp was in chaos, the slaves charged his brothers wielding stolen and makeshift weapons. Methos struggled to his hands and knees ignoring the sand clinging to his filth coated body. Silas and Caspian were on the ground unmoving surrounded by vengeful slaves. Most were armed with makeshift clubs, his brothers would be killed but likely keep their heads so the death wouldn't be permanent. He registered this in a nanosecond. Swinging his gaze around the camp he focused on a female shape approaching him. It was hard to see whether because of the poison or because the camp was burning it was hard to say.

"My grandmother told me that the horsemen can't die. She said that for as long as she lived you never aged. My mother said the same. Well I think you can die." It was the green eyed slave. He glared blearily at her and bared his teeth.

"You. . . . Can . . . .Try . . . " He gasped another spasm shot through him. He collapsed and writhed his movements were violent enough to knock the girl down.

"Why isn't he dead?"

"They're demons!"

"The others are dead!"

"No only two-"

"Have to go-"

More voices all slaves frantically trying to figure out a plan of escape. As the spasm at last faded Methos wiped blood from his chin and began to crawl toward the river. Waves of ice and fire wafted over him. He was certain several organs had ruptured, at least one lung had collapsed and he could only see through one eye. His legs didn't seem to work and he couldn't feel them. The sand was soft and thick, forcing him to drag his tortured carcass hellish inch by hellish inch toward sanctuary a hundred yards ahead of him. He heard a familiar voice and managed to peer over his shoulder with his one good eye.

The scared girl from the night before was coming for him her dark eyes unreadable. He tried to hurry not wanting to die at her hands, she had seemed such an innocent, and it must have been her who poisoned him. He bared his teeth at her and cursed her in a tongue older than her people when she reached him. She screamed and flung a warding sign at him. He leered at her. His face was bloodless pale, eyes bulging one a solid crimson with blood his jaw and chin were soaked in gore, and he was covered in sand, sweat, and filth.

"Poisoner!" He gasped.

"No! No, master they tried to make me when I told them what Kronos had said. I said no, you were nice just like the stories said you would be when the others weren't around. I didn't poison you! I want to save you, can anything help you?"

He glared at her but was otherwise helpless. She gripped one of his wrists and helped him get behind a group of river rocks hiding from the continuing battle. He gasped feeling his body shutting down but struggling to breathe anyway.

"Girl."

"Yes master?"

"In a few seconds I will appear to die."

"Master-"

"Shh. . . .I . .. . won't be . . . . dead . . . just . . .just . . . wait . . . I'll be back."

He returned to life screaming, the residual poison in his system woke a fire in his veins, he ground his teeth and closed his eyes, willing the pain away. Slowly it began to fade. His newly risen body ached and throbbed, he opened his eyes.

The camp was deserted, shattered crockery and torn tent material poked through massive drifts of fine sand. The wind howled hungrily there was no sign of the slaves or his brothers. Fine grit battered his dry skin; his lips were cracked and caked with dried blood and bile. He squinted at the wreckage hoping for some sign of his brothers. He shivered in the wind and stood slowly. The small river was frothed with white caps and rough from the frenetic wind. It was cold, staggeringly so, what had happened to the summer sun?

Limping and slipping in the thick powdery sand he struggled to the largest mound of rubble. He poked through tugging at strips of blood soaked tenting and broken tools. It had been the work tent, where the slaves were allowed to gather and work on their tasks for the horsemen. He managed to free a ragged length of half cured hide. He wrapped it around himself and used the edge of a shattered bowl to cut a strip off and fashion a belt. With his torso and upper legs protected from the bitter cold gritty wind, he felt moderately better. He sat down to rest before renewing his search.

As he reached into the sand to help himself sit his hand struck something hard. He dug around to pull it out of the way. Grasping it he grunted and tugged it free. It was his sword. What was his sword doing in the slave's tent? He sighed and settled onto the sand. He felt better with his preferred weapon in hand. He needed to think.

It felt like mid winter, which meant he had been lying on or under the sand near the river for months, a poison potent enough to kill an immortal of his age and power and leave him in a state of death for months? His mind raced, it was a potent weapon, a powerful weapon. He had to find the slave girl; he had to have the secret of the poison. What of his brothers? In spite of the misgivings of his newly emerged better half he missed them. They were a part of him, one day he suspected one or all them would fall in battle but until then they were one animal, one beast entire.

His body hurt and he was thirsty. He dug in the rubble further finding several empty but intact pouches, a pair of sandals slightly too big and a few pieces of gold. He used another strip of his makeshift clothing to fasten a thong for his blade, he slung the old friend over his shoulder, tied the pouches to his sash and jammed the sandals onto his feet as tightly as he could. Satisfied he limped to the riverbank and lowered his face to the water. Drinking lustily he filled his empty belly.

Pulling away from the bank he lay on his back and waited for his stomach to settle or empty itself. After awhile it seemed content to hang onto the water. Getting to his knees he listened and smelled the wind, sensing nothing appealing in the frigid blast he lowered his head and slipped into the river. He crossed carefully, keeping his sword dry and arrived on the opposite bank. There had been a group of villages two days ride from the camp a few months ago. With any luck they would have settled there or thereabouts for the winter. He aimed his feet at the previous location of the settlement, closed his eyes and let instinct take over.

Just before dark he caught a desert hare. He settled in a soft sand dune sheltered from the wind, skinned and stripped the animal and ate it raw. It tasted wonderful. He had enough water from the river to last him another four days with careful use. He settled into the dune and allowed the sand to cover and insulate him; he used a portion of his hide covering to shield his face from the wind and slipped into a deep sleep.

He awoke a few hours later, it was full night. A half moon lit the desert well enough. He coughed and shifted sand slid around him softly hissing in the dead air. He sat up and rearranged his clothing. He stood slowly and stretched. Checking his location and direction with the stars he set out. His feet were chafing in his too large sandals. A few hours into his hike he slipped them off and hung them around his neck. The sand was coarse and rocky but it made a nice change. His battered feet healed effortlessly and he increased his pace. He wanted to arrive at his destination by dawn if he could. He knew it was unlikely, the village had been peopled by nomads, and the horsemen had raided there only a few months ago. Most of their raids decimated the target, the survivors usually fled. Still, there could be abandoned food, or tools, possibly a new group of nomads. In any case he had little choice the only other settlement he was aware of was fifteen days hard raid away, unless he wanted to return to their latest conquest and dig through the sand for carrion or rubble. He trudged on, dawn came and went, midday arrived and he finally stopped to rest.

Huddling in the meager shelter of a stubby cliff he closed his eyes and swallowed a few gulps of water. He felt thin and stretched. Thirsty, confused and alone he gazed across the desert. He focused on the horizon ahead. There was no sign of smoke or habitation ahead. He felt a cold chill in his gut. It had been months there was no reason for the settlement to still exist. He should have followed the river. Sighing he got to his feet and set out again. If he didn't stop again he should arrive at the old location by midday tomorrow.

It was too late to go back he had to hope that the settlement's water supply was still intact, water brought people and as long as the wells weren't dry it was likely that another band had claimed the location. He trudged on.

He kept an eye out for another rabbit. The sun climbed higher and grew hotter. His tongue felt swollen, his throat ached and his eyes burned. The wind picked up and needles stung his flesh. He heard a rabbit near him heard its little furred feet thumping against the ground as it raced across the sand. Its fierce brown eyes gleaming as it darted through shadows and across the tops of dunes. It was following him he felt sure. His stomach raged at him. It chewed at him and demanded things of him. He thought of the stalking rabbit and hungered. He opened his eyes after sunset and checked his bearings; he listened carefully for the rabbit. He was on course; he may even arrive around dawn. His feet were bleeding intermittently. A sock of sandy blood soon covered his feet to the ankles. His battered system doggedly heeled the damage only to have the rough sand chew away the new skin on the next steps. The blue lightning of his quickening writhed over his feet and ankles at every step. Oblivious he labored on.

Two hours after dawn he spotted smoke. He thought it was smoke; he sat down and used a little water to rinse his mouth and feet. Letting his feet dry in the wind hi slipped on the too large sandals and drank the last of his water, he allowed the moisture to suffuse his system. He knew that the rabbit did not exist but it had been a pleasant fantasy. He blinked and scraped sand from the corners of his eyes. He shifted the blade on his back ignored the sensitive newly healed skin that had replaced the dozens of layers the thin cord of the blade's thong had chewed through. If he were mortal he would have died from infection, madness, or dehydration. But he wasn't. He headed toward the smoke.

Shouts echoed from the village well before he was in clear sight. He assumed they had lookouts. He kept walking slowly there was no need to hurry, the shouts lightened his heart, here was opportunity. Even if these people labeled him demon and killed him on sight he would rise and cut their throats, take what was of use and burn the rest. They were objects to him; his experience with the slaves had served to remind him of the fickle and cruel nature of mortals. He spared them and they rose against his brothers and him poisoning him. Murdering him and leaving his flesh for the desert animals. He bared his teeth and found himself wishing for the villagers to be hostile.

Three men crested a dune and shouted at him. He didn't recognize the dialect but it seemed to be roughly based on several local languages. They were big men, wearing the loose robes of the nomads; they were armed with short curving blades and wicker shields. Methos felt his lip curl and his hand itch for his blade. The men surrounded him. One was young in his late teens; the other two were in their twenties. They regarded him with dark eyes and hard gazes. He stared back for a moment.

"I am a scribe and a fighter; I am lost and need help." He spoke in one of the regional dialects he knew. The men exchanged glances. One of the men spoke to the boy, the boy ran toward the smoke in the sky. The other two men approached Methos each seized one of his skinny arms. Methos did not resist. He was cunning; these men had just assured their own execution. They half carried and half dragged him to the village.

Methos took the opportunity to rest and study his surroundings. His keen gaze took in the number of tents, -twelve, how many seemed to be living quarters, - ten and guessed at the purposes of the others. One was likely for work or food storage the other was opulent and grandly appointed. Rich red wool instead of roughly tanned hide, there were even two men who appeared to be bodyguards out front. Slaves and villagers hurried about intent on their own tasks. This surprised Methos in his experience strangers were extremely rare in such communities. His hackles twitched whoever led here exerted enormous control over his people there were a few curious glances but none of the people slowed or stopped to stare. The men changed their direction and headed for the tent.

Methos wondered if they would murder him outright. He waited to get a feel for their leader. Pusillanimous whining and begging could get him killed just as easily as a show of defiance. The men spoke to the guards the guards grabbed Methos roughly, feeling his limbs and hands one gripped his face and pulled back his lips exposing his healthy teeth. They laughed and spoke longer with Methos's escorts. Finally one of the guards put a heavy hand on his shoulder and pushed him into the tent.

The sudden change from light to dark blinded the immortal for a moment. He managed to avoid tripping over the carpets in the tent or his over large sandals and waited for his eyes to adjust.

"You are armed." It was a woman's voice. His eyes adjusted to the comparative gloom. The strong desert light filtered through the thick wool tent and through the smoke vents. An oil lantern burned as well. Eyes now nearly fully adjusted Methos looked at the woman before him.

She was short, well proportioned. Her face was lean and graced with high cheekbones. Here eyes were dull and colorless; her hair was shorn and close. She wore ornate robes dyed orange and black. Her lips were thin and cruel.

"I am." He said and bowed. She was obviously a person of power and deserving of respect but he carefully bowed as he would to an equal.

"How did you come here?"

"By foot and with the aid of your men's helping hands." He answered. His voice was carefully neutral.

"I am Eesandre. Welcome to my camp."

"I thank you. I am called Melchior I am a fighter and a scribe."

"A scribe? Indeed, how did you come to be lost in the desert?"

"My people were many weeks walk west of here. A group of men attacked us, they wore masks, they slaughtered all who resiste or fled, the rest they enslaved. They took all of value and burned the rest."

"Ah, and how did you survive?"

"I watched from afar."

"You watched your people die? How were you not seen?"

"I am a skilled hunter and used those skills to evade the men on horseback."

"Men on horseback?" Her eyes lit up hungrily. Methos felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach. She studied him closely.

"You seem familiar to me scribe, but I know of no person called Melchior. You look in need of food and rest."

"I can work, and fight." He insisted.

"I am sure you can but you will work better once you are fed and rested." She settled on a stubby pile of cushions and lifted a bell. She rang it once. One of the guards poked his head inside.

"He will do. Clean him up, feed him and let him rest until tomorrow." The man bowed carefully avoiding eye contact and escorted Methos out.

"You are either very lucky or very screwed." The guard grunted once thy were beyond ear shot. Methos looked up sharply the man spoke the same dialect Methos had used earlier.

"You know-"

"Your language, yes or rather our language. I wasn't born into this court. But that's another story."

"What does she intend for me?"

"Was your story true? About the mounted raiders?"

"What? Yes of course, I have no reason to lie."

"You may regret not dying with the rest of our people." Our people? Methos's head swam he had chosen the dialect on a whim. He had assured himself and Kronos that the people whose language it had been had been wiped out, they were Cassandra's tribe.

"What do you mean?"

"She hunts the riders. Claims she was slave to them once, she poisoned one and watched him die, three others escaped. She said their claims of immortality are false." Methos's head hurt, the woman had not been familiar so she likely was not the slave girl, she was far too old anyway. Who was she?

"Tell me more."

"Do you seek vengeance?"

"Of course."

"The riders murdered our people generations ago, the survivors scattered it is no longer your fight."

"False friend, listen to you, as though such a killing could EVER be forgiven. They hit us again fool, the killing I spoke of happened only four moons ago." The guard shot him a venomous look.

"The lady is wise and cruel she has hunted the riders since she was a maiden bride. She will take their lives; do not add yours to the toll. Live here be happy maybe catch a woman pregnant. If she thinks you will be of use in her hunt she will use you until you are a husk."

"I thank you for your concern cousin but this is what I must do." The guard shrugged and fell silent. He led him into an unused tent Methos sat gratefully on the rough carpets. The guard returned bearing a clean soft robe, sandals closer to Methos's size, water and food. Methos groaned in appreciation and quickly changed and began to eat.

"I am called Martin."

"I am Melchior." Methos said around a mouthful of cured meat. The guard grunted and clapped him on the back. He rose and left Methos in piece. Exhausted he finished off the food and drink and pulling his new robe close he used the new sandals as a pillow and slipped away.

He woke a day and a half later. His stomach was empty and his bladder entirely too full. He slipped his sandals on and left the tent. He studied the camp layout and made a guess as to the location of the latrine. He guessed correctly he shifted his blade into a more comfortable position and relieved himself. Sighing in relief he cleaned himself and wandered back toward the camp. A strong hand descended on his shoulder. Annoyed he turned around and came face to face with Martin.

"How do you Melchior?"

"Well enough, you?" Martin smiled grimly.

"She has sent for you." Methos allowed Martin to lead him back the woman's tent. It was just as dim inside as previously. Taking in the woman's pale complexion Methos surmised she must travel in a divan when the band broke camp.

"Ahh Melchior, I trust you feel better?"

"Very." He said respectfully. She smiled.

"Come sit near me, it is all right Martin. You seem to think our new friend has designs on me." She tittered like an empty headed girl. Methos could smell wine on her breath. A sense of dread descended over him. If this girl had had something to do with the rebellion she may have realized why his tanner leaner face was familiar. He swallowed and smiled.

"You have nothing to fear from me, I want only to hunt the riders." She laughed and brushed her fingertips across his cheek. Methos listened to the tent rustling as Martin left.

"Ahh Melchior, shall I tell you my experiences with the riders?"

"If you like." Methos poured more wine for her. With luck she would tell him something of the poison they had used.

"I was a slave. I had been born a slave, raised a slave and expected to die a slave. My grandmother and mother raised me. We led hard lives with little joy. Our masters were savage and cunning. They were the riders. There were four of them, Kronos master of them all claimed the title pestilence, he delighted in infecting a population and then leading his band among the sickened people slaughtering everyone in his path. Then there was Caspian, he devoured life and was called famine. He would crush living things in his teeth, devour living human beings raw or roasted, nothing could escape his maw. Silas delighted in war and combat, the thrill of the fight drove him on, although he loved animals. The most fascinating and in some ways feared was the fourth horseman, death. He was called Methos. He was a tall slim man, a master of war and tactics. He had no soul and loved no one although those who shared his bed were often shown a kindness.

Legend in the camp claimed that there had been a slave girl he had loved; he had treated her as a wife. Kronos became jealous and took her for his own. Methos did not object. The girl stabbed Kronos and fled into the desert. Since then it was said if you wished to avoid Caspian or Kronos it was wise to make death love you." She paused in her narrative to sip her wine. Methos remained very still.

"That was the legend. My mother encouraged me to become death's lover.

Death had the task of culling the slaves. Any too sick, old, injured, or rebellious to serve were killed. Death was charged with the task. He would allow the condemned to speak with his family or any he loved and then take him to the slaughter pit and behead him or her. Kronos and Caspian, even Silas preferred harsher methods. So of all the riders death was looked on with something closer to affection than hate.

My first contact with Death face to face was when he arrived to cull my grandfather. There was no selecting or testing process he simply went about his business in the camp and noted who had been unable to work or was unwilling to. New slaves were given a short period of adjustment before they were culled any who could not settle or accept their new status were killed.

Grandfather was very brave. He kissed grandmother and mother, he told me to work hard and be fair to the other slaves. Death waited quietly without moving outside the slave's tent. I could see his shadow on the sand outside the door. Finally grandfather left, two other slaves followed him. Mother covered my ears and held me until they were all dead.

The next day I was hauling water and death came to the river. He sat on the bank and stared at the horizon. After awhile he seemed to disappear we actually forgot he was there. While our pace never slowed we began to chatter and gossip as women everywhere do. When another girl arrived with washing linens she hurried to us and shushed us. Death was watching us. He often wore his mask about camp but that day he hadn't. His face is burned in me. It was blank and empty but puzzled as well. It was as though he could not comprehend our actions, a desert rat observing us would have understood us better." She fell silent for a moment.

"It was then that I decided he was not human. I had suspected, all the older slaves said that the riders had always appeared to be the same age, that their wounds healed magically and even death had no hold over them. As a child I had believed it because my elders said it was so. As a young woman I began to believe because my eyes said so. We finished our work in silence. Death remained at the river as we carried the wet linen back to camp with the last load of water."

"That night I asked my grandmother."

"Grandmother, can the riders die?"

"Ahh."

"Can they?"

"I do not know. That they never age, this I have seen with my eyes, my heart tells me they are evil, I believe they are the demons of the desert; they have always existed and always will. We will serve them until we die and when we come again to this place we will have cleansed ourselves of previous evils by our service and we will be exalted."

"Those were my grand mothers words and all she would say regarding our masters. Years later things changed.

"I was no longer a girl; I had been blooded and was ready to go to the tents. My grandmother had been culled two years before. My mother was desperate for me. She insisted I go to Death and attempt to please him. Since that day at the river I had paid more attention to him when I saw him. He seemed genuinely other than human. Twice he left the camp once for a year and a second later time for many months. Kronos was furious both times. Eventually death returned. He had not changed, he was still silent, still an assassin, he still seemed confused by the snatches of normal life we slaves managed to obtain for ourselves. I had come to believe that death himself was a slave. Property of Kronos he could never be free. He planned their attacks and killed at least as many as the others but he was just as much property as we were."

"So, I came to him in the bloom of my girlhood. He had used a friend of mine, a new slave the night before; he usually had a slave a night. He did not seem to have a preference. I fixed his meal, cared for him and when the time came I offered myself, I even attempted to seduce him, I was clumsy, nervous, and scared. He rejected me, kindly, but thoroughly, he did not even beat me. I slept at his feet."

"The next day the slaves rebelled, death ate poisoned food I had left for him. As he died he cursed me for a poisoner and told me to stay with him, he claimed he would appear dead but would rise again."

"What was in the poison?"

She smiled and finished her wine. Without having to be asked Methos poured her another glass. She accepted it and tasted it.

"I don't know. His death was very painful and messy, he was strong and took a long time to die."

"Did you wait for him?"

"Yes, I waited for two days. He was dead but did not rot. The other slaves forced me to go with them when they fled."

"The other riders?"

"The rebels beat them badly and drove them off. We all fled before they returned."

"And Death?"

"I buried him in the sand near the river, the place I had first seen him watching us." She looked into the flame of her oil lamp and let the silence settle. She demurely sipped her wine. Methos's head spun. She had buried him, was that why it had taken so long for him to revive? Doubtful he had numerous memories of a living burial, even more of waking up in a grave, even reviving amidst a funeral pyre.

"Did you poison him?"

"No, the other slave girl, the new arrival who was my friend, she took his life. In return Kronos strangled her during the rebellion." Methos silently cursed Kronos, for killing the girl and abandoning him.

"What would you ask of me?" He asked quietly. He feared she had realized his identity. He looked different he knew, his hair was longer, he was not garbed in war paint or masks, he was leaner, tanner, and less imposing, it was likely she did not recognize him. The most powerful effect of her story was the time that must have passed; she was nearing her thirtieth year, which meant he had been buried in the sands for nearly twenty years. He reeled; summoning his resolve he forced the revelation away. It was irrelevant he was thousands of years old what were twenty years to him?

"I want your story, was death the same man I knew when he slaughtered all you knew?"

"I could not say, I observed only masked butchers on horseback, they did not turn their attentions to me." She nodded and offered him wine. He accepted. Martin arrived a few moments later with freshly roasted meat and dried fruits. They ate quietly. Elesandre set her meal aside and waited for him. He finished and added his bowl to hers. She gazed longingly at him.

"How can I help you?"

"Help me find them. I have to insure the destruction of the other three."

"Are you positive death really died?"

"Nothing is certain but it has been eighteen years and he has not yet emerged from the desert. Now you are here, another survivor, each person in this camp has been affected by the riders. You will join us and aid our quest." It was a command not a request. Methos resolved to take what he needed that night and flee. While he longed for the poison this was a far too volatile situation.

As the wine continued to flow Elesandre's ravings became more irrational, her hands began to play over his body, hungry for his flesh. At first he evaded her grasping hands and hungry mouth. Finally she pinned him and freed his robe.

"I will fuck you whether you will or no desert man." She hissed and nipped his chest. In spite of his better judgment he found himself aroused. He flipped her over and leaned over her. She wrapped a hand around him and kissed him roughly. He grunted deep in his throat as her hand began to move.

"I –" he started, she cut him off with another kiss and pulled him close.

"Resist me further and I will have my men hold you down and I will fuck you until you bleed." She hissed. He groaned as she eased him into her. She rode him roughly, finding her own rhythm, digging her nails into him, drawing blood. As he approached climax she changed her rhythm holding him off. He gasped and struggled to rise. She bit him hard enough to draw blood and drew him out of her. She turned her back to him and eased him into her again.

"Fuck me or I'll have you gutted." She growled and thrust against him. He was so aroused and ready he hurt. Giving into his much abused body's demands he hammered into her. He fucked her hard, as hard as any rape, harder than anything he could have called making love, he fucked her like an enemy hating her for forcing him into it. Finally they approached simultaneous climax as he came in her she writhed and gasped. He pulled away and lay on his back exhausted and hurting. He pulled the robe over himself. She lay on her back breathing hard. She rolled onto her side and looked at him.

Her hand reached into his robe and began stroking him. He groaned and pulled away. She crawled next to him, resting her cheek on his upper thigh.

"I own you." She crooned as her hands worked away. He fought the orgasm, denying her satisfaction, and then he felt her lips on his balls. He gasped and cursed under his breath, his hands spasmed and grasped the carpet. His back arched as she took him in her mouth. Her hands moved over his belly kneading and massaging. He fought the urge; she swallowed him whole her lips brushing the base of him. As the inevitable climax rushed on him he fought it all the harder, finally she dug her claw like nails into him, the unexpected pain distracted him and he came, hard and hot in her.

He pulled away from her as though he'd been burned. Sweat stood out on his dark skin, his light eyes blazed. He reached for the blade at his side.

"There you are." Her voice was icy and bordering on insanity.

"You wanted me?" He asked curiously, his eyes were devoid of light. He raised his blade and struck at her she dodged him and roared in laughter. He heard movement behind him. Martin and five other men barged in. Methos slipped behind Elesandre and raised his blade to the other men.

"She attacked me, I am defending myself."

"We cannot allow you to take her life." Martin grunted.

"She's insane she attacked me, let me go and she lives." He lied. She died this day if he had to kill Martin and the other men in the camp oh well.

"There is no life for you after this day!" Elesandre shrieked. She reached back to him and sank her nails into any portion of his flesh she could reach. He grunted but accepted the pain, his shoulder, neck, and jaw were soon slick with blood.

"KILL HIM!" She shrieked at her guard. Methos leveled his eyes at the six men and gripped his blade securely. Martin made the first move. He flung a blade at Methos's face, the immortal easily ducked it and hurled the crazed she-bitch Elesandre at the group of guards. He slashed through the tent and rolled out onto the sand.

He headed toward the tent he had woken in. If he were a sane man he would be heading for the desert, waiting until night and returning for vengeance later. But they had pissed him off, first the rebellion, then the abandonment and the hellacious desert journey, now rape and assassination? He bared his teeth. Barreling into the tent he sent a half dozen slaves scattering and shrieking. He picked up a shield, it was battered and sprung in several places, the wicker would only be good for one direct blow but it could be invaluable. Turning back toward his pursuers he leapt from the tent.

The six big men rushed toward him. Methos threw back his head and let loose a battle cry. He lunged at the first man and stabbed him in the throat. The next man was disemboweled; the third managed to block the first blow but lost his head for his trouble. The fourth had his skull cleaved in, the fifth foolishly blocked the first blow with his arm, Methos kicked him in the face and left him to bleed to death. His shrieks of agony and prayers filled the midday air. Martin stood before Methos he trembled but stood his ground.

"I will kill you Martin."

"Death is what you are, at least I will rejoin my people. You were right when you said that such an act could never be forgiven."

"Then die fool." Methos said. He stepped forward and stabbed the man in the face before he could defend himself. He planted his foot on Martin's face and pushed to free the blade from his skull. He could hear Elesandre in her tent. He cleaned his blade on Martin's twitching corpse and stepping over it headed to Elesandre.

"SLAVE! PATHETIC FUCKING SLAVE!" He called his rage flowed furious in his veins. He laughed and let loose his war cry again. Somewhere in the camp a woman sobbed. He was invigorated by the blood soaking into his skin. He was if noting else a killer and he was a very very good killer.

Elesandre was in her tent armed with two long knives and her own insanity.

"I worshipped at the feet of the lady Cassandra dog! We shall have our revenge!" Oh great, not only had the slaves whispered about the legend of Cassandra the women had formed a cult to her. Baring his teeth at the high priestess of Cassandra he readied his blade.

"I'm going to do something I often did for Cassandra bitch"

"I have all ready fucked you for her! Your unwilling seed spilled in me honors her stolen virtue!"

"Oh not that, I'm going to kill you." He said and killed her. Her head hit the ground and rolled spreading gore. He returned to the camp blade dripping gore, stained with blood and sweat from head to toe. He approached a line of tethered camels, selecting the two best, he mounted one bareback. The cowering slaves and acolytes stared at him from tents and cubbyholes he could see a few fleeing figures in the distance. He left the second best camel tethered and wiped his blade on his leg. He bared his teeth and whooped. The camel complained and spat.

"RUN DOGS! DEATH RIDES AGAIN!" He whooped joyfully and rode into the huddled crowd.

As the sun set the sky stayed red with flame thick smoke stained the sky. Methos led his camels laden with loot and supplies away from the camp. He wore white robes and half his face was blue he encouraged the camel along and headed back into the desert. He was a desert demon, he knew where he belonged and he knew where Kronos would return to. He would search the desert for the poison, he had years.


End file.
